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Ah, wasteful woman, she who mayOn her sweet self set her own price,Knowing man cannot choose but pay,How has she cheapen'd paradise;How given for nought her priceless gift,How spoil'd the bread and spill'd the wine,Which, spent with due, respective thrift,Had made brutes men, and men divine.

Book I, Canto III, III Unthrift.

Kind souls, you wonder why, love you,When you, you wonder why, love none.We love, Fool, for the good we do,Not that which unto us is done!

Book I, Canto VI, IV A Riddle Solved.

Love wakes men, once a lifetime each;They lift their heavy lids, and look;And, lo, what one sweet page can teach,They read with joy, then shut the book.